


Battlescars

by oldtimeyryan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Sherlock has feelings, angsty fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldtimeyryan/pseuds/oldtimeyryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years doesn't seem like a long time to most people. To some, it passes in the blink of an eye, and something that happened all that time ago is no longer of importance. But to others, the days would drag along and seem never ending. These days were becoming bleaker, and it felt like the sun decided to take a well-earned holiday. In these years, whether it is one, two or three, so many life changing events could occur; a birth of a child, a marriage, a divorce, or a death. Time is not written in stone, and any one of those events could happen in a recurring pattern, or one could happen and that was it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battlescars

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously a post-Reichenbach reunion fic and these seem to be getting a little overdone but who cares?! Title is from Battlescars by Lupe Fiasco featuring Guy Sebastian.
> 
> Sorry for how badly everyone is out of character, I just am so bad at characterizations you have no idea I need to quit.
> 
> Beta'd by Mikey.
> 
> (ATTACK OF THE ITALICS)

Three years doesn't seem like a long time to most people. To some, it passes in the blink of an eye, and something that happened all that time ago is no longer of importance. But to others, the days would drag along and seem never ending. These days were becoming bleaker, and it felt like the sun decided to take a well-earned holiday. In these years, whether it is one, two or three, so many life changing events could occur; a birth of a child, a marriage, a divorce, or a death. Time is not written in stone, and any one of those events could happen in a recurring pattern, or one could happen and that was it. 

Have you ever watched your best friend throw himself off the roof of a building, a hospital in all of God's great irony? Have you pushed away everyone who ever held some sort of importance in your pathetic life because the one person you revolved around was dead? Have you ever spent days on end, sitting in his chair as his scent dwindles away and is replaced with your own? Have you spent three fucking years trying to move on from the nightmares, and his last words to you- _his suicide note_ \- glued to the walls of your mind? Have these nightmares replaced the ones of a war you've almost forgotten, and now you can't sleep without waking up crying? Nightmares of the fall, his coat flapping about, looking big enough to be a parachute but it wasn't enough to save him. Seeing his broken body laying in a pool of spreading blood- _his blood_ \- on the pavement. People, complete strangers, trying to push you away so you can't see him. But he's your friend, your best friend, and you just have to get to him. He was a genius; he could have saved himself, right?

Wrong.

It's been three years and Sherlock Holmes was very much dead. John had been in and out of therapy with Ella since _The Incident_. Of course his bloody limp and returned, as did the tremor in his hand. The suicidal thoughts came back too, though generously worse then what he had had after Afghanistan. He'd watched Sherlock rise and fall in eighteen months of knowing him. He had always been the same insufferable, annoying dick, but he'd been John's insufferable, annoying dick. The last words John said to his face were the ones he regretted saying more than the ones he never said. 

_You… Machine._

_No Sherlock, friends protect people._

Yeah, well, he'd failed at that, didn't he? He had shot a man for Sherlock within 48 hours of knowing him; he'd pointed a gun at the Golem as he tried to suffocate Sherlock. Hell, he'd even jumped Moriarty for the git. He'd been there to protect him then, so why couldn't he have _that day_?

John looked at the cold tea Mrs. Hudson had left for him over two hours ago. He hadn't moved from the same spot on the couch in days. He sat there, cocooned in Sherlock's old coat; the only movement he ever made was to change the channel on the telly if Sherlock was even hinted at. Lestrade had tried to get him to come out, but John didn't want to speak to him. He'd played as much a part in Sherlock's bloody suicide as Donovan and Anderson did. About a week ago, Mycroft came around, but before he could speak, John glared at him. Mycroft, the genius dick, took the hint. He didn't seem fairly pleased about it, but he nodded and left. The only visitor he got was Mrs. Hudson, but that was a rarity now. She spent a lot of time at her sister's, which was a very good plan on her part. She could come back and find what she had left to his own devices, with a bullet through his brain and a note by his side. John had pictured that in his mind for months after he had put Sherlock in the ground. _Survivor's guilt_ , Harry had said. _You'll get ever it soon. You're strong, John, you'll move on_. Except he hadn't. He probably never will. How could you move on from a best friend like Sherlock? The man was, in one word, brilliant. He was absolutely fucking brilliant. Yes, he rubbed it in people's faces and his attitude could have started wars, but he was brilliant, amazing, spect-fucking-tacular. 

Sherlock had told him that he was a fake. But John never believed that. He'd seen the man solve cases in just eight hours. He'd seen Sherlock discover what was causing the hallucinations in Dewer's Hollow. He'd seen Sherlock meet him for the first time and know exactly what had happened to him only months prior. Sherlock Holmes was not a fake. He was real. Real enough for Mycroft to love, and to try and protect. Enough for Lestrade, up until the last day, believe him and get his work done. Enough for John to have complete and utter trust in him. If anyone was fake, it was _Richard Brook_. They found his body not long after Sherlock fell. The papers had said Sherlock had shot him, placed the gun in his hand and then committed suicide after coming to terms with what he had done. They had said Brook- Moriarty in reality, if any of the blind gits would open their damn eyes, they would see that- and Sherlock had had an argument over the job. 'Brook' wanted to stop acting Moriarty and continue with children's television, and Sherlock wouldn't allow him. So Sherlock shot him. That article seemed to open the police's eyes at the Yard, but it was too late. Sherlock was dead, and by default, so was John.

Two years and three months ago, Moriarty had said some things that didn't seem to make sense at the time. _I can stop John Watson. Stop his heart_. John thought that had meant the bomb that he was strapped in. But even then, Moriarty had a plan. He was always going to kill Sherlock. It was so _obvious_. He'd even said so. 'I am going to kill you, someday.' His plan was never to blow John up. He would let John fall, fall for a man who held absolutely no interest in sentiment or love. He would let John be drawn in before the abrupt end. In the end, Moriarty still stopped John's heart. He'd torn down the eighteen months worth of rebuilding in two minutes. From the minute the phone call started to the minute John dropped Sherlock's dead wrist. James Moriarty had never been human. He was a parasite, who deserved everything he had gotten in the end. But Sherlock didn't. Sherlock didn't deserve to be dead.

"John…?" It was Mrs. Hudson. She could see John hadn't moved once, that the tea she had left during his fifteen minute sleep had not been touched. She didn't expect a reaction, and she never received one. She nodded to Mycroft, who stood at her left shoulder with Greg was behind him. Both men walked in, and the only sign that John knew they were there was the clench in his jaw. That was something, at least.

"John, we must speak to you," Mycroft spoke first, his voice washed of all formalities and coldness. The last time John had physically seen Mycroft like this was Sherlock's funeral three years ago. And it was, well, satisfying, to say the least. John enjoyed watching Mycroft suffer, after all the shit he'd done to Sherlock, he deserved some back. But right now, John felt sympathetic. Since their last meeting, Mycroft seemed to have lost 8 pounds, and his hair was thinner. He had faint circles beneath his eyes, showing he had not been sleeping well. And he was without his umbrella. Lestrade wasn't much different. His grey hair seemed greyer, and he certainly looked thinner. Neither man was coping well either. John finally moved a little, and his whole body seemed stiff. "Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Gregory and I have been severely worried about your wellbeing. My brother's death has shaken us all, but it has clearly affected you the most. We want you to know that as your friends, we are here with you."

"What would you know about friends, Mycroft?" John spoke. His voice was dead, devoid of all emotion. "When have you ever had a friend, or a real friendship?" Mycroft's blue eyes froze, so that they painfully resembled those of his younger brother. "You gave Moriarty the juice to put your brother in the shitter, and now you're trying to _protect me_? That's rich!"

"John, you barely move anymore. Mrs. Hudson swears that she hasn't heard you speak in over three weeks. She says you stopped visiting Sherlock five months ago. You broke routine, and if it wasn't for the weekly updates, everyone'd think you were dead." Lestrade spoke up. His voice was shaky, like he was battling to keep it from breaking.

"Maybe that's what I want, Greg," John said, his tone not changing. "I stopped seeing Sherlock so maybe I could have the motivation to finally rid myself of the nightmares, the memories, the _feelings_. I tried to move on, but from a man like Sherlock Holmes? Im-bloody-possible."

Mycroft sighed. "Following in my brothers footsteps will not help anyone, John," he kneeled in front of him, and John made no move to get away. "As for the nightmares, I believe your therapist gave you sleeping pills. Why do you not take those?"

John closed his eyes tightly, feeling the familiar burn of tears. His lack of emotion failed, and he let himself hiss out a sob. "Because if I take the damn pills, and stop the nightmares, I'll never see his face again, alright?" Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged a glance. Of course they had suspected the obvious, but John's words tipped that over the edge. "You said it yourself, Mycroft, life with Sherlock Holmes is a war. And you also said I missed it. Yeah, well, I miss it. I miss _him_. I want him to be with us, right here, annoying the shit out of you simply for his and my own entertainment. I want his crazy experiments, his violin at three o'clock in the morning, and his hand in mine. We did that, when we became 'fugitives'. He held my hand. He knew, and I knew. Hell, everyone did."

"We miss him too, John," Lestrade's voice was soft. "And I know we both played a part in what drove him to his… Suicide, but the papers were wrong. They always are. I believe that now, but only too late."

John laughed harshly. "Bit too late, yeah," he said bitingly. His anger died as quickly as it had come when Mycroft seized his wrist. He flickered his gaze back as he was pulled to his feet. 

"I want this over," John said as pain seared through his leg. His cane was pushed into his hand and he was ushered from the flat. Mycroft was still holding his wrist. The day outside was bleak, the clouds a steel grey and a light rain was falling. "Where are we going, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock's grave."

*

For the next three months, John had been returning and talking to Sherlock. He never mentioned his feelings, but he did give him shit for being a selfish tit. It started like any normal day, tea with Mrs. Hudson, a two hour session with Ella and then an hour with Sherlock. He had just left Ella's when he felt the change of atmosphere. The clouds parted, and the sun was beginning to show. The wind had softened and now lazily drifted through John's hair. Shivering with confusion, John hailed a cab instead of walking. London passed by him, and it seemed brighter. Even the cemetery didn't seem as depressing. Sherlock's grave still seemed new, the shiny black marble gleaming against the greying white. The golden letters shone happily to John's eyes and he met his reflection. 

"Um, hi, Sherlock…" John cleared his throat. "I guess you could be getting pretty annoyed of me right now, considering ever since your dick of a brother and the detective inspector dragged me out of solitude, I've been here. Um… It's a month until three years. Three years ago, you…" Words failed him, not out of the norm. He took three deep breaths before continuing. "You died, and left the world to burn. So, I miss you, and I need you. And that's all I wanted to say." He closed his eyes tightly, a mirror to the day he had admitted what Sherlock had done for him. _I was so alone…_

So you can imagine his surprise when someone spoke behind him.

"Your compassion never seems to bore me, John," the voice was instantly recognizable. Deep, filled with amusement only harboured for moments where the two were alone, but there was anguish and guilt there. It hurt John's chest to hear that voice again, and he spent half a second trying to convince himself he had finally lost his mind. He turned, forgetting the pain in his leg and opened his eyes.

He hadn't changed in the slightest, if not looking a bit older. His dark hair was wild, his curls lacking their usual perfection. His eyes were icy blue, and they had emotion drowning within them. He was still dressed the same, from the black dress shoes to the navy scarf. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, and he was trying to keep his face blank. John's lips pressed into a thin line before he spoke.

"You. Fucking. _Dick_." he spluttered before he swung his fist. It connected with Sherlock's cheek, much like the day they met with Irene Adler. Sherlock's body twisted back, and when he came back to his senses, he held a hand to the to-be bruised area.

"I can't say I didn't expect that," His voice hadn't changed. He sounded alive, and real, and here. 

"No," John rasped, tears welling in his eyes. " _No_. You aren't here. You are _dead_ , Sherlock, oh God, I'm standing at your bloody headstone!"

"John-"

"I watched you fall, I took… I took your pulse, for Christ's sake!" he ran a hand over his face, checking for any fallen tears. "Right, well, I've finally gone insane." John's voice was shaking horrifically, the thickness of emotion building within his throat. He refused to look at Sherlock, refused to even believe that Sherlock was even in front of him.

"John, _please_ ," So much emphasis was on that word, making it sound like Sherlock was begging. "Look at me." John's breathing was harsh, like he'd been running. He let his gaze flicker towards the taller man. 

"Great, fucking brill _iant_ ," John clenched his fists, ready to throw another punch. Sherlock saw this, and he let his eyes drop. It was the sign of vulnerability John had only seen and heard once, in Dartmoor and the day of _The Incident_. It momentarily silenced John, and he just held back from touching Sherlock's hand in a sign of comfort. 

"John, I am sorry," Sherlock spoke after the silence had passed. His eyes glanced up to meet and hold John's. "I never meant for this to happen, for me to be gone for so long." His words sounded sincere, and his facial features were softened with the gauze of guilt. John clenched and unclenched his jaw.

"Why? Why now?" John asked, biting back more explicates. Yes, he was angry. Fucking pissed, actually, but he decided to let Sherlock speak before he started rambling. Sherlock closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. 

"Moriarty has no more associates, I have taken them all down," Sherlock murmured. "I had to fake my death to accomplish that."

"And you couldn't have told me what you were planning?" John growled. Sherlock went to speak, but John held up a hand. "No, Sherlock, I need to say this. Have you got any idea at all what your absence did to me? To Mrs. Hudson? To your mother and Mycroft? To Lestrade? It destroyed us, rattled us to the fucking core. Three years, Sherlock, you were gone. I visited your grave every day, until I couldn't take it. I wanted to kill myself, okay? I was hell-bent on ending my life because it wouldn't stop. Harry called it survivor's guilt, but she was wrong. I had nightmares about you, I saw you fall every night. I screamed myself bloody hoarse, but you still fell. Do you know what that does to a person? No, because you're Sherlock fucking Holmes, incapable of thinking about anyone but himself!" John took a deep breath, choosing to ignore the raw hurt on Sherlock's face, "I spent three years wishing you'd come back, but you know what? I don't want to see you. I can't… _Do this_ , Sherlock. I just… Can't." John let himself cry then. He didn't make any sobbing noises, but his breathing was high and wet, and the tears were obvious. With a stiff nod, John got a grip on his cane and began to leave, but Sherlock's hand snaked around his forearm. His eyes were dark, and they were pleading with him. 

"You always said you could never understand me, John," Sherlock's voice was almost as bad as John's. He was trying hard to stay in control, to keep his emotions in check, but he was failing abysmally. "Let me explain, please, it is all I am asking."

John must've been mad, because he nodded once. Sherlock's grip on his arm tightened. 

"You said five words to me the last time I saw your face, five words that I have thought about for three years. _No, Sherlock, friends protect people_. That's what I did, what I had to do. Protect you. Protect my friends," John went to speak, but Sherlock mirrored what he done only moments earlier and held up his hand. "On the rooftop, I spoke with Moriarty. The computer code was a lie, a lie to keep me dancing. Everything Moriarty did leading up to that moment was a lie. He told me something that I had not been expecting, but it made my plan even more effective. John, you have to believe that I didn't want to do this, especially to you. I didn't think that my death would affect you as badly as it did. I had no idea that your feelings went that far. I suspected it, but it did not _click_. 

Three gunmen, three victims, John. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and you. My life for theirs. For yours. I needed you to be safe, I always, _always_ needed you to be safe. It's why I did what I did. You were always there to protect me, and this time I had to return the favour. Friends protect people, John," Sherlock stopped speaking, his whole face ablaze with a fire within. "And I can tell from your eyes that you don't believe me. I recorded the conversation for this exact moment, and for when you drag me off to Lestrade." Sherlock made a face as he pulled out a vintage tape recorder. He pressed play, which forced John to listen to it. The conversation was obviously Sherlock and Moriarty, that much was certain. John still didn't believe until he was mentioned. He froze completely, hearing the words repeated.

'John?'

'Everyone.'

'Mrs. Hudson?'

'Everyone.'

'Lestrade?'

The recording went on, documenting Moriarty's last moments, to John having to relive the phone call again. His heart rattled hard in his ears, as he tried- and failed- to keep tears away. He hated this conversation more than reliving the fall itself. Listening again, and watching Sherlock before him, it was obvious he felt the same. The recording ended when there was a muffled thump, Sherlock making his landing that obviously wasn't pavement. The device was pocketed and Sherlock slipped both his hands around John's wrists. John looked up at him, the anger he had felt melting away. Sherlock 'died' to save him. Sherlock, a computer with skin and vital organs, had thrown himself off a building to save his best friend, his landlady and his 'keeper'. Sherlock was human after all. A spark of hope erupted within John, and slowly he pulled Sherlock into a hug. It started out hesitant, but soon it was tight and rough. John's arms were wrapped around Sherlock's skinny waist, with his face pushed into his arm. Sherlock was curved into him, crumbled and holding onto John for what seemed like support. His face was buried into the curve of John's neck. Both of them didn't move, but just held the other, breathing in the scent. Spiciness, expensive shampoo, tobacco and something mysterious, like the man it came from. Mellow, cheap hair products, the flat, and the slightest hint of alcohol, reflecting the life of war. The scent of skin was a case to be solved, a poem to be written, a song to be sung. Both men clung to the other, fingertips biting through fabric to reach skin, emotions trying to catch on through the air. Three years of torment and pain were matched in the show of friendship, and it was in this moment that it clicked. Sherlock was _alive_ , and the first person he had returned to was John. Sherlock was alive, full bloody stop. John pulled back from the hug, his arms momentarily dropping to his side as he collected himself. He never once broke eye contact with the man before him as he tilted his chin down a little. The moment froze between them, the old faint crackle of attraction growing stronger.

It was no lie Sherlock had been attracted to John, perhaps even loved him a little. Well, no. Loved him a lot. Yes, Sherlock Holmes had found love in John Watson, and what a foolish notion it was. Sherlock had been evading these feelings ever since they had met in St. Barts, and he had almost lost control the night he and John had become fugitives. Oh, but the thrill of the case would have exceeded any negative thoughts Sherlock had on the idea of kissing John. When John pulled him by the coat collar that night, Sherlock could have seized the moment, broken the ice and closed the distance. But he let it go, and he never got another chance. But he was receiving another chance now, and he didn't know what to do with it. In reality, he had never had feelings for another person, excluding Irene Adler. He had never kissed another person other than Mummy. What if he didn't meet John's standards? What if the kiss was poor in quality and John never tried again? What if…

The thoughts ran dry as John pressed his lips against Sherlock's. The taller man was frozen for a few moments before he melted into John. He was skilled, his lips moving in a slow, welcoming rhythm, drawing Sherlock's inexperience and thinking out like poison from a wound. The moment was beautiful and perfect, like a piece of art, and it lasted for six minutes and thirty-eight seconds. When John pulled away, he listened to the pounding of Sherlock's heart. 

"I hate you," he said, though he meant the exact opposite. 

"Never, ever do that again, and if you are planning to fake your death, warn me. In fact, warn the people closest to you." He took Sherlock's hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"I will warn you," Sherlock agreed, stealing another kiss. "Perhaps we should go back to Baker Street. I expect Mrs. Hudson is worrying."

"She'll have a bloody heart attack when I tell her you're alive, you tit," John said, grabbing his cane. He knew he wouldn't need again, unless Sherlock decided to pull another stunt like the fall. Sherlock gave a soft chuckle as they made their way from the last stage in Moriarty's failed plan.


End file.
